y from Putney in his
motor-car.

Rose had positively envied Laura, who had a husband who could be ill,
who could be tucked up in bed and taken care of. It was Rose who helped
Laura to make Prothero's big room look for all the world like the ward
of a hospital.

Dr. Brodrick had wanted to take him away to a sanatorium, but Prothero
had refused flatly to be taken anywhere. The traveller was tired of
travelling. He loved with passion this place where he had found peace,
where his wandering genius had made its sanctuary and its home. His
repugnance was so violent and invincible that the Doctor had agreed with
Laura that it would do more harm than good to insist on his removal. She
must do as best she could, with (he suggested) the assistance of a
trained nurse.

Laura had very soon let him know what she could do. She had winced
visibly when she heard of the trained nurse. It would be anguish to her
to see another woman beside Owen's bed and her hands touching him; but
she said she supposed she could bear even that if it would save him, if
it were absolutely necessary. Was it? The Doctor had admitted that it
was not so, if she insisted--absolutely--for the present; but it was
advisable if she wished to save herself. Laura had smiled then, very
quietly.

In twenty-four hours she showed him the great room, bare and clean as
the ward of a hospital (Rose was on her knees on the floor, bees-waxing
it). The long rows of bookcases were gone, so were the pictures. He
couldn't put his finger on a single small unnecessary thing. Laura, cool
and clean in a linen gown, defied him to find a chink where a germ could
lodge. Prothero inquired gaily, if they couldn't make a good fight
there, where could they make it?

Henry, although used to these combats, was singularly affected as he
looked upon the scene, stripped as it was for the last struggle. What
moved him most was the sight of Laura's little bed, set under the north
window, and separated from her husband's by the long empty space
between, through which the winds of heaven rushed freely. It showed him
what the little thing was capable of, day and night, night and day, the
undying, indomitable devotion. That was the stuff a man wanted in his
wife. He thought of his brother Hugh. Why on earth, if he had to marry
one of them, hadn't he married _her_? He was moved too and troubled by
the presence there of Tanqueray's poor little wife. Whatever view truth
compelled you to take of J